


Free ammunition

by protaganope



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Chronophobia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-20 10:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16554173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: “Chronophobia”, is a specific psychological phobia which manifests itself as a persistent, abnormal and unwarranted fear of time or of the passing of time.





	1. Ink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waitfor_it](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitfor_it/gifts).



His heart is in his ears, and he can’t focus.

It’s been just past noon for far too long already today, Alexander Hamilton thinks to himself. This does not bring him comfort; only worsens his condition, so he tries to think of other things. Blames the twitching of his fingers to the triple espresso on the desk beside him before casting his eye back on the papers in front of him. The slow tick of the grandfather clock in the corner weighs upon Hamilton, touches him in a way he cannot quite understand; not now. A few minutes pass— he knows this, he does. Takes a deep breath for what must’ve been the seventh time.

He scribbles away for a while, preoccupied with the wording and implications of a particular bit of prose. He’s finished sooner than he’d prefer, and is scanning it for spelling errors when his eye flicks up, catches that far wall again. Instantly he cringes, averts his gaze. What did that say? A moment had passed in a blink, a lifetime threatening to unfold while he was here, sat in contemplation. Sat in silence, with-

Sort the papers, some part of him says. Quickly. And his hands are moving fast before he realises just how close the inkwell was to his work. It, honestly rather anticlimactically, falls over fast. His breath threatens to grow irregular as the deep black bleeds into his hours of writings.

His only proof. His heart is no longer in his ears, it’s in his throat and he chokes on unspent air.

Scrabbling to save _something_ , he grabs as many as he can, not really capable of conscious thought.

He’d have to do it all again, he realises. But when? His dear Betsey had demanded him home that night, had told him of some plan the children had orchestrated that he simply couldn’t miss. And the firm had clients visiting the day after, and he and Madison were struggling already to pick up Jay’s slack on the essays, he couldn’t divert even a minute to rewriting these notes. He ran over the numbers again in his head, trying to resort all of the carefully organised schedule slots, desperate to salvage something that could be cut.

There wasn’t enough hours in the day. There wasn’t enough hours for him, perhaps there never was; all he did, it would never be enough. His grip tightens on his paper. This horror, never dead and always digging its nails into his skin, pierces his throat and further robs him of breath. It eats at him and he is slowly being reduced, that’s what it is, corroded into nothing but the husk.

“We should go out.” Burr’s voice, lower than his own and considerably slower, slices through the tension that had grown in the room like a carving knife. Hamilton’s breath stutters like a broken bayonet and he tries to turn it into a cough. Burr is watching him, brow slightly furrowed, and Hamilton over-exaggerates pulling his handkerchief from his pocket in a large gesture.

He doesn’t really appear convincing, even to his own perceptions. He thanks Burr’s naturally awkward initiative for the lack of commentary.

And Hamilton can’t resist. He laughs, bitter and cynical.

“Not everyone is able to just abandon their work so easily, sir. I have things to do. Let me get it done.”

Burr gives him an unimpressed look this time, and though he has no reason to, Hamilton feels small under that gaze. However, there was another unnamed emotion in the man’s eyes, faint but sure. He tries not to flush, but his face had changed hot beyond his control from the mild distress.

Burr, the overcautious bastard, simply shrugs. 

“Hamilton, be sensible. You’ve been at this for the past two hours and while you have an intense glare at these papers, you have not actually done anything at all.” Burr maintained his cadence, despite clearly noting the stiffness that did overtake Hamilton’s frame.

“You been watching me, Burr?”

Burr was not willing to entertain him, not amused by his childish remark, in response putting a hand to the bridge of his nose, fingers massaging the skin there with a sigh.

“All I offer, sir, is an alternative to your wasting of our precious day-hours.” His voice was clipped, tired. It had been a long day, and it hadn’t even aged yet.

Well, that was nice, Hamilton mused, sarcastic. His curled smile, borne more so from irritation than pleasure, deepened.

“I suppose it could be said that the notion of such is that which does plague me.” He shifted slightly, clever tongue saving him from the brunt of shame that came with admitting that _Aaron Burr_ actually had a point.

Hamilton raises his trembling hands to his arms in an attempt to comfort himself. Hunches over his desk so that Burr can’t see the expression on his face. The scraping of a chair makes him uneasy, until a hesitant hand weighs on his shoulder. The smile of his that had been wavering in this quiet moment of vulnerability finally curved genuine.

“Come on, Hamilton. Let’s go somewhere.” Burr’s face looks conflicted for a moment, and Hamilton can almost hear the fans whirring. “That diner you like, the one owned by that young man who pretends not to notice when you take more sugar than he taxes you for.” At Hamilton’s playful grimace, Burr seemed to ease. “My mistake, the one where you certainly do not overindulge in sweet liquids.” Hamilton breathed a laugh.

“I’d love to,” he begins, “But…” Burr nodded. 

“That’s fair. But tell me what’s wrong, Hamilton. Tell me why this has you so worked up.” Uncharacteristically to the point, Burr gestured back toward his chair, dragging it beside Hamilton’s before sitting down. He rested his elbow on Hamilton’s desk, and prompted him to start talking. His favourite thing.

He cleared his throat and tried to carry it off, but there was a mildly injured tone to his voice he couldn’t shake. He could tell, as Burr listened to him talk, he wasn’t buying the lack of effect Hamilton claimed it had on him.

He shuts his mouth, stands, and Burr copies him.

He’s halfway finished ushering Burr out of his space when he just… stops. Thinks about the clicking of the grandfather clock, the way it grew loud in Alexander’s isolation and moved insistently faster than his pulse. Thinks of the moving shadows with every second, every minute the day went on. Slipping from his fingers without drag, no reprieve, no significance or viable remedy.

“Burr?” Hamilton’s voice barely manages not to crack, and he wonders if he should thank a deity he hasn’t seen in years that it didn’t. Burr’s movements reduce to a hovering cautiousness as he looks over at him. Expecting.

“What is it, Hamilton,” He says the words quietly, making Alex want to dismiss him for good in the way he immediately makes the tension in the air somehow more palpable. This was too close, too much, but… 

He had to ask.

“Could you— this is going to sound ridiculous; I’m sorry— could you, um-“

“Hamilton-“

“Hug me? Please?” His voice did crack then and he scrapped the notion of praying to any deity ever again.

Burr, to his credit, did not openly show his disgust on his face. Hamilton internally tried to remember where Burr kept his revolver.

“Alright.” Burr had turned on his heel before the words registered, and he hoped his happiness wasn’t too evident as he quickly put his arms around his co-counsel.

It took a slight pause, but soon he felt Burr’s arms rest on Hamilton’s own back. The slight pressure, warm and soothing, helped him attempt to try and get his shit back in order. His breath formed a shudder in his throat again, his vision blending into the shades of Burr’s waistcoat, the scent of him filling his receptors— spice, the smoke that came, with the city, wrapped up in something mildly alcoholic and hammered together with metal nails.

He dares to smile, a little more honest than before.


	2. Quill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the good bit

They break apart after he feels himself able to gather himself. It may be his imagination, but Hamilton likes to think Burr keeps his hold on him for a moment longer than necessary. 

Keeping close, that does something to Hamilton. Flushes his face and makes the room much too quiet once again.

He can hear the clicking of their pocket watches. In the face of this deceased sound, it lends a question if a spark should set the room aflame. This tension puzzles him, makes him want to furrow his brow, deeper, so he does. Pushes a lock behind his ear as he regards Burr’s complexion. 

A slight marring is dusted over the bridge of his nose, the careful lines well on their way to setting into his face in their age, and, most alluringly, those deep brown eyes that stared back at him. 

He tries to ignore that adjective choice. 

He fails. 

Because; Burr is _wonderful_. 

Hamilton’s fucking weak. Honestly? He could wax poetics about that face for hours. 

But not now. 

His face must be forming expressions, because Burr smirks rather sheepishly to himself and Hamilton doesn’t need to be listening to know he’s about to make some excuse and scamper away. 

In hindsight, it was a rather... caught up answer his brain devised to avoid the usual setup. 

He leans closer again, movements obvious, and presses his lips against Burr’s. It had been a warm day, but Burr’s mouth is temperate, lips dry and edging on chapped. 

Burr freezes against him, and he wonders if he has wittingly made a life-threatening mistake. 

He makes to move away when Burr’s hands land on his shoulders. Now it’s his turn to pause. 

One could likely imagine his pleasure when Burr pulls him flush, and deepens the kiss, licking into Hamilton’s mouth as he moves one hand to rest on his hair. This is unexpected, makes him stagger, but Burr holds him up, strong. And suddenly _pushing, pushing,_ and Hamilton finds himself pressed against the wall. Burr’s hand in his hair grasps and tugs, ordering his head to follow as he moves it around, oddly confident. 

And who could blame him here? He can’t help it; he moans. It’s nasally, as embarrassing as it is needy, and he presses his thighs together, tight. The world folds down into Burr’s bracketing, steady weight, Alex’s heat and soft sounds. 

Burr leans back, rests his forehead against Hamilton’s as the two of them try to catch their breath. A carriage goes by. 

“Go, lock the front door,” His own voice comes out awkward, stilted through his pants. Burr nods, but there is a beat between this agreement and the application. Hamilton preens at this, tucks away the vision of confliction present in Burr’s dark eyes. 

Burr tears himself away and Hamilton is already missing his comfort. But, it can’t be helped. 

Luck is on their side, for Burr returns quickly and melts into Hamilton’s frame like he’d never left. He must have a new vigour overcome in his bones, for he is impassioned, hands roving, all skill and some failingly discreet urgency. 

Hamilton pushes thought of where Burr’s skill is derived from to the back of his mind. 

With that dismissed, he focused his attention on the push and pull of their interaction, answered back the intentions of Burr’s fire with all the strength of both thunder and lightning. 

They stumble over to Burr’s desk, breath stolen from the press of kisses that follow each other’s every move. 

He locks their legs together and delights at the wave of pleasure that rewards him in his and Burr’s arousal. This nearly overtakes him, but he holds firm. Holds Burr as he staggers momentarily, pressing his face to Hamilton’s shoulder. Then he jumps, surprised, when Burr seals his mouth at his neck. His touch burns hot, sets Hamilton’s nerves alight as his teeth glance his skin. He takes a hissing, surprised intake of oxygen at this, and is intoxicated, once more, lungs filled with spice, smoke, something like ethene and metals.

And this is how they linger for a while, rutting, quiet and desperate, indecent in their habit, fully clothed, nearing satisfaction but not quite there. Hamilton wets his lips, and a strange sound leaves him.

Burr surprises him, works between them to undo his breeches and takes him in hand. Hamilton’s voice cracks. He doesn’t have words that would make sense in speech, so he babbles. Hand on Burr’s wrist, his head falls back as he utters absolute nonsense and filth, sewn together as one. Burr nips at his neck again, and Hamilton doesn’t have the heart to lie and scold him for marking his skin up in that deep pink that bloomed from the burst vessels.

Like this, their breathing drowns out the clicks of the far wall, and he is content.


End file.
